Taming the Beast

Beau Lake

Description

Can they find a way to move past their dark secrets and find solace in each other?



Returning to his hometown in Tennessee, Samuel Campbell is searching for absolution. He made a promise in Wharton to never hurt another human ever again. Coming home is the ultimate test. There are dark memories here, a trail of bodies left behind by a once-rabid wolf. In Sevierville, he discovers the hardest part of confronting his past is facing his own conscience.


Kindergarten teacher Nadia Montanari is accustomed to whispers and stares. After all, she is recently divorced, which is the absolute *worst* thing a 1940’s American woman can be. Then, she discovers she is pregnant. If her secret comes to light, her livelihood will be taken from her. Her family will disown her. She’ll be a pariah.


When Samuel and Nadia meet, sparks fly. But both are harboring relationship-ending secrets. And there’s something far darker too: Nadia has met Samuel before. She was nearly one of Samuel’s victims back in 1937, though neither one can remember.

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Romance fantastique
• Bit-Lit
• Bit-Lit
• Romance
• Romance Fantasy
• Romance fantasy
• Shifters
• Fiction
• Paranormal
• Romance policière
• Romance paranormale

Informations

• Publié par: 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
• Date de parution: 15 septembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781644503324
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Table o f Contents
I. 1937
Prolog ue (Nadia)
II. 1947
Chapter 1 (Samuel)
Chapter 2 (Nadia)
Chapter 3 (Samuel)
Chapter 4 (Nadia)
Chapter 5 (Samuel)
Chapter 6 (Nadia)
Chapter 7 (Samuel)
Chapter 8 (Nadia)
Chapter 9 (Samuel)
Chapter 10 (Nadia)
Chapter 1 1 (Samuel)
Chapter 12 (Nadia)
Chapter 1 3 (Samuel)
Epilog ue (Nadia)
About the Author Beau Lake



Taming T he Beast
Copyright © 2021 Beau Lake. All rights r eserved.

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This is book is meant as a reference guide. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All brands, quotes, and cited work respectfully belongs to the original rights holders and bear no affiliation to the authors or pu blisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 20 21944552
Print ISBN: 978-1-644 50-333-1
Audio ISBN: 978-1-644 50-331-7
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-644 50-332-4


I. 1937
Prologue (Nadia)

M ilton calls the thicket of trees just past the buttress dam “our’s.” It’s a far less appealing part of the reservoir with straight-trunked trees planted in rows meant to hide the curved concrete eyesore feeding water into the lakeside. The dam is inordinately loud, providing hydroelectric power to Knox and Sevier Counties. Often, I leave our spot with a migraine, a pulsing sunspot just behind my right eye. But, every weekend, we’re here, lounging on the hood of his paren ts’ Buick.
“It’s private,” Milton says, as if he needs to co nvince me.
I’m just content to be here with him, tucked unde r his arm.
This afternoon, I brought a picnic lunch in a hamper: deviled eggs, watermelon, and pigs in a blanket.
Milton whoops when he peels back the lid of the repurposed margarine container, finding the glossy eggs stuffed with fluorescent yellow yolk, minced onion, and chopped ham. He takes a bite, paprika adorning his upper lip like a gingery mustache. When I point it out, he asks, “Do I look like m y father?”
“No.” I giggle, thinking of his father’s bristly mustache, a poor facsimile of Roosevelt’s walrus-like stache. “You’d need much more paprika.”
Milton takes another egg from the container and pops the whole thing into his mouth. “These are yummy,” he mumbles as flecks of egg fly from his full mouth. “Did your mom m ake them?”
“I did. I wanted today to be special. It’s our anniversary, after all, ” I reply.
I had woken up early this morning to make our lunch, squinting at my mother’s recipe cards. While they were written in precise cursive, it was difficult to understand her shorthand. Did “p” stand for pound, pinch, or something else entirely? I’m still not certain I put the requisite amount of mayonnaise in the eggs, though luckily, Milton isn’t co mplaining.
“Is it?”
He’s forgotten. A lance of disappointment edges between my ribs, and I wrap my arms around my midsection. I had thought today would be special. After all, we are weeks from graduating high school, and it’s our first anniversary. Surely, he was meant to propose! Wasn’t he?
I’m a silly, stupid, little girl. I blame Hannah Carmichael. She’s the one who planted the seed in my head during English class, when we were supposed to be discussing Chaucer. “Nadia Fairbanks has such a nice ring to it,” she’d said, smacking her gum. “It’s so much easier to pronounce than M ontanari.”
Milton reaches for the gingham handkerchief that I had wrapped the pigs in a blanket with, oblivious to my pointed silence. Clearly, he doesn’t intend to apologize for forgetting the date.
I slide off the hood, heavi ng a sigh.
“Where are you going? ” he asks.
“I’m going for a walk,” I reply over my shoulder. “I’m no t hungry.”
He doesn’t follow me.
The reservoir is a large expanse of water, a diverted river turned into a bowl-shaped lake. It’s named after some big cat that makes the manmade habitat its home, but I can’t remember which. I wish a tiger—or whatever it is—would just swallow me up. Then, perhaps, I wouldn’t have to feel so h umiliated.
I find a floating dock a half-mile down the shoreline, clearly jerry-rigged by teenagers. It’s made of fifty-five-gallon barrels, lashed together with mismatched plywood haphazardly placed on top. It’s anchored to shore by a long nylon rope, tied around a mas sive tree.
I take off my heels and climb aboard the bobbing eyesore, putting my feet into the chilly water. Closing my eyes, I turn my face up towar d the sun.
Suddenly, a branch snaps behind me.
“Milton?” I call, craning my head in the direction of the noise.
But there’s no one there. I turn back toward the water, watching tiny, dark-colored tadpoles swim around my bare feet. Then, I hear a low-pitched growl. Before I can turn around and look, the floating dock bucks violently beneath me. I manage to grab one of the cords holding the dock together before I can be flung off; the rope burns my hands.
Despite the fearsome growl, I expect to see Milton on the shore, the nylon anchor in-hand. He fancies himself a prankster, eager to dole out tricks rather than treats on Halloween. For the senior prank, he and his buddies had released frightened sheep inside the school, while the poor ewe was dressed in likeness to our Principal, Mr. Babcock: glasse s and all.
But it’s n ot Milton.
The creature is tall and shockingly thin; it’s as though its skin has been stretched over its skeleton. I can see its ribs spreading as it breathes. My eyes keep sliding away from its angular face, as though my feeble brain couldn’t bear to make sense of it. Surely, seeing this monster—clear as day—means I’m losin g my mind!
Suddenly, it leaps atop the dock, making the platfor m shudder.
I have nowhere to go. The wolf—and it is a wolf or, at least, wolf-like—stands between me and the shore, and, at my back, there is only open water. I open my mouth, ready to scream for help, but nothing comes out; just a gurgle, a dea th-rattle.
The wolf bares its teeth. Thick globules of saliva trickle down its curved, yellowing canines. It licks at its chops. The dock leans precariously as it advances toward me. The end of the platform on which I cling is now entirely out of the water. If I lose my grip on the cord, I’ll slide directly into the wol f’s mouth.
“Please,” I blubber. “Go away, please.” My hands are numb now, blood pouring from my t orn palms.
The wolf’s nostrils flare. It takes ano ther step.
At the same time, I lose my grip and slide down the plywood on my stomach. Finally, I am able to scream as the rough-hewn wood tears at my clothes, my skin beneath. I collide with the wolf, and the beast flips me over onto my back, staring down at me with dark eyes. They are as depthless as the sta rless sky.
It drops its head to examine me, its stinking breath hot o n my face.
“Please,” I whimper, pushing weakly at it with my bleeding hands. “Leave me alone.”
It sniffs my face, my neck, its rough tongue sliding up my cheek.
I am going to die. I wish I could go home to my mother. We’ve been arguing a lot lately, and I want to tell her, I’m sorry . I want to crawl into her bed while she listens to Guiding Light on the radio, let her stroke my hair with her long, pain ted nails.
“Mommy,” I sob. “I just want my mommy.”
The wol f freezes.
“I’m sorry,” it says. in a croaking, albeit hu man voice.
Then, it grabs me by the front of my blouse and tosses me into the water. The chill is a shock, and I inhale water into my lungs. My chest is on fire. Thrashing, I manage to get my head above the water, grabbing for the wildly roc king dock.
The wol f is gone.


II. 1947
Chapter 1 (Samuel)

T he Greyhound coach shudders violently like a racehorse at a starting gate when it is forced to idle at a traffic light. My Styrofoam cup of coffee sloshes just before each wheezing standstill, soaking my knuckles and linen pants. I shouldn’t have spent the quarter on the cup at the last station. It’ll cost double to have my pants dr y-cleaned.
Despite the copious amount of steam fogging the dark liquid, I take a measured sip. It’s blisteringly hot with a grassy aftertaste; the beans weren’t roasted properly. I pour the remainder out the window, crushing the cup in my palm. The foam splinters, littering the fl oorboards.
I try to stretch. But my legs are far too long, and my knees butt up against the seat in front of me. It’s been only a few minutes since the last stop, but my muscles already feel inordinately tight, as though they’ve been tied into a do uble knot.
I check my watch. Surely, we are nearing Sevierville by now. We’ve been traveling on I-40 for a few mile s already.
The landscape is starting to look familiar. Royal Paulownia trees grow along the roadside, the cloven shells of their spent fruit still clinging to the branches. If only it were springtime: the purple, semi-tubular petals of its flowers are particularly striking, and smell like vanilla and almond. Now, all I can smell is bus exhaust and the unwashed bodies of my fellow tra